


Golden Boy

by watchherrise



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchherrise/pseuds/watchherrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur leads a horrific druid raid as a young prince, the haunts him for most of his life, causing him to question the actions and decisions that he makes regarding magic users and the druids. Canon compliant, based on the events of ‘A Herald of a New Age’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of the characters or the plot belong to me. There are a handful of scenes that I have taken from the show, and written around the dialogue said/actions shown. Title taken and fic inspired by the song Golden Boy by Natalie Merchant.

_all it took was a killing spree,_   
_and the whole world was lying at your feet_   
_Golden Boy_

Arthur’s discussion with his father about the situation with the crops was interrupted by the door to the throne room opening. He fell silent, and pushed his food around his plate as Sir Kay entered. “What news do you bring from the patrol, Sir Kay?” Uther questioned mildly.

“We’ve found a druid camp, Sire.”

Morgana who had been staring uninterestedly into her food, looked sharply up. Arthur glanced at her briefly, frowning, before he turned to his father and Sir Kay. They both knew what was coming next, a raid would be ordered against the camp. Morgana’s lips tightened, her disapproval clear on her face.

“Did you?” Uther asked, clearly displeased.

“A few hours ride from here.”

“A patrol will be sent out at first light to rid the country of them,” he paused for a moment. “Arthur will lead it.”

“Me?” He was certain he had heard wrong. He did not even think of the fact that he was interrupting until his father turned his attention on him, looking expectant. “I will do my best,” Arthur said, once he realized that Uther was serious. He’d never been part of a raid before, let alone led one, and he knew the significance of being put in charge.

It was Uther’s acknowledgement that he was old enough, and prepared enough, to begin to shoulder that responsibility. That he believed Arthur was capable of leading, of commanding the men. Arthur was beginning to take place as the heir, not only just as a prince. Uther would never say so, however Arthur was certain it had to do with his recent win in the tournament, proving himself to be the best of them, outshining those with significant more years of experience on him. Although Uther’s acknowledgement of his victory was a simple ‘I expected nothing less’, this was Arthur’s reward now. The trust of being put in charge of a group of the knights.

“No, Arthur. You will succeed.” _Your best is not enough if it does not get the job done._

He was hesitant to think what would happen if he failed in this role, and was adamant that he would not find out.

* * *

He looked through the trees to the druid camp that could just be seen through them. The patrol fanned out behind him. His heart hammering in his chest, he tightened his grip on the crossbow in his hands. He could not mess this up, whatever happened, he could not mess this up. _This is my chance to prove I can do this. To prove to my father I am a worthy heir._

Leon came to stand beside him, and when Arthur looked at him he just nodded and smiled. He usually deferred to Leon in these cases, when he joined a patrol or a hunt. When his father was not there to lead, and he was too young to be in charge.

He swallowed, and nodded firmly. “Leave the women and the children,” he ordered, tone soft but the authority was clear. “Charge.” It was the last moment of control that he had, and even then, it did not go unchallenged.

It was not the first time he had seen death, it would not have been the first time he had killed. Even at sixteen he had seen more death than he cared to think about. But this was something else entirely.

This was a slaughter.

He froze on the edge of the camp, crossbow now held loosely by his side. Chaos exploded in front of him, people desperately scrambling out of the reach of Arthur’s knights and their weapons, their begging drowned by the panicked screaming of their kin. A small child spun, looking hopelessly around for what Arthur presumed was a parent.

The child locked eyes with him moments before a bolt came crashing into his skull.

Arthur opened his mouth to call it off, but no words would come. He could not make himself intervene, could not force his legs to move to help them get away. Frozen, he was unable to do anything but watch hopelessly as blood spilled across the forest floor.

* * *

 The moment the patrol returned to Camelot, he wanted to flee to his room but knew that he would have to report to his father. “Arthur?” he turned to face Leon, but did not speak. The lump in his throat threatening to turn into tears if he tried. “I’ll report to the king, you go rest.”

That increased his desire to cry, and he blinked furiously to keep them back. It must have been clear the state that he was in. He nodded gratefully at Leon, and almost ran up the courtyard stairs to get away. He knew he would be criticised for not being the one to report, but he could not face his father like this.

Pushing the door to his room open, he found his servant wiping down the floors. “Get out,” he ordered, tone harsh otherwise it would have come out weak and wobbly.

The servant lurched to his feet, grabbed the bucket and hastened out of the room. Arthur shut the door roughly behind him, and it crashed loudly into the frame. Leaning back against the wall, he slowly slid down the wall, pulling his knees into his chest. Finally in the solitude of his own room he started to cry.

Morgana found him like that hours later. When she gingerly poked her head through his door. “Arthur…” she said softly, stepping in and gently closing the door behind her. He slowly raised his head, looking at her with a wretched expression. “It’s okay,” she sat down beside him, and put an arm around his shoulders.

“What happened?” he shook his head, forcing back tears again. “I worried when you didn’t turn up for dinner.” He was a prince, a knight, he should not react this way, crying on his floor like a child. As if death shocked him, scarred him.

But when he thought about it, it was not that they died, it was that they were slaughtered. _I swore an oath to protect the innocent._ And he had stood there and watched as they died, unable to stop it, aware that he had lead the men there. A part of him knew that it would have happened whether or not he was there, his father had ordered a raid, a raid would happen. But he couldn’t dislodge the feeling of being responsible.

The more that he tried to stop it, the harder he sobbed. Shaking in Morgana’s arm, a headache building behind his temple, his breathing staggered and harsh.

“It’s okay,” Morgana soothed softly, rubbing his arm. “Shhh. You’ll be alright.”

He shook his head. It wasn’t okay. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see it. The expressions of terror, of pain, of the dead scattered along the ground. It would never be okay for them. The screams echoed perfectly in his ears.

“I – I want it to stop,” he sobbed breathlessly. He didn’t think Morgana had ever seen him so venerable, so weak, so pitiful. _I’m not a child anymore._ But that thought did not help calm him, instead it worsened it, he knew he should be better than this.

“Arthur…”

“I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t – there… children…”

She tightened the hug around his shoulders, holding him tightly, as slowly he quietened, began to calm down.

* * *

He woke with a start in the middle of the night to the sounds of innocents screaming.

He stared up at the canopy for ages longer, until he decided that sleep was not going to come, and he moved to stand by the window. Eventually watching the sky slowly lighten.

His servant had barely placed his breakfast on the table, when a knight knocked on the door, telling him that the king wished to see him.

Heart hammering, and nausea rising in him, he buckled his sword around his waist, and slowly made his way through the castle.

Without acknowledging him the guards to the council room opened the doors, and he stepped through, finding his father sitting at the table, eating his own food. He often wondered why he didn’t eat in his room when he was only eating alone. “You wished to speak with me, father?” he questioned cautiously.

“Yes, Arthur, sit.” Hesitantly he did so, sitting across from his father, as the doors were pulled shut. They echoed loudly in his ears but he knew it wasn’t quite so loud. “I hear you lead well yesterday.”

He stared at him wide eyed in shock. For the praise, that his father only so rarely gave. And for the fact that it was not deserved, he had not done well, he had done appallingly, had not lead well at all. He was confused at why he said that. And he ached that the words of praise he had been given did not feel deserved. That something which was so rarely given, was not something he could feel proud of.

He was not proud of his actions.

* * *

Standing on the edge of the training grounds, he stared blankly across the field. Seeing Sir Ector who had run a young woman straight through, Sir Pellinore that had flung a child to the ground, Sir Kay who had ignored the pleas of a man and smashed his head in. They stood there now, amongst others, talking cheerily, sparring, heads thrown back in laughter.

He was not aware that Leon had come to stand behind him until he spoke. “Are you okay, Arthur?”

Slowly he turned his head to look at him. “I’m fine,” he answered, but everything in his posture, his expression, his tone of voice said otherwise.

“No you’re not,” he said kindly, it was not a criticism, or even just a statement of fact. It was Leon’s acknowledgement that he understood.

It was a long time until Arthur responded, and when he did it was not directly following their words from before. “Why did you tell my father I had done well?” he asked tone soft. He knew it must have been Leon, he had given the report after the event.

“Because you did,” when Arthur stared at him with scepticism and opened his mouth to point out exactly how he was wrong, Leon raised a hand to quieten him. “You did Arthur. You did as best as any of us ever do on our first raid, let alone when leading it.”

“I don’t feel like I did well,” he admitted.

“I know. But that is because you don’t think that doing well, and killing all of those people should correlate, don’t you?” he gave a hesitant nod. “Raids are awful, Arthur. I will be honest with you, that does not stop. Unless you can desensitise yourself to it. And as a knight, and a prince, who will see and cause so much death in your life, you have to be able to remove yourself from it. No matter how awful it seems to do that. Otherwise it is going to tear you apart.”

_No man is worth your tears,_ is the lesson he learnt from that, and one that he instilled in green knights for the rest of his life.

* * *

From that moment on, he lead every patrol that he was on. In a matter of weeks he was placed in charge of training the knights. The first time he stood in front of them all, he felt uncertain. Some of these men were twice his age, had been fighting since before he had been born, had led him, had taught him, had watched him grow.

He knew they were thinking the same thing. An indignation of being put under the control of a sixteen year old, of a child. It did not last long. He very quickly reminded them that he had won the last tournament, that he was able to outfight, and outsmart all of them. Grudgingly, he won their obedience, their favour, their loyalty. In a way that his father never had.

* * *

“My neighbour – I – I saw her – using it to heal her son.”

Uther got the details of the neighbour, and sent Arthur off to arrest her. Without question, he went, knights trailing behind him. Flinging the door of the small house open, he saw a woman crouched beside a bed, running her fingers through the hair of a small boy lying on it.

He froze for a moment, watching the scene. She had used magic to try protect her son, save him from whatever sickness that was making him whine, and writhe in the bed. Was that really so bad? _Magic is wrong,_ he reminded himself and gave the order for arrest.

But when the lady turned to him, eyes wide and fearful, not for herself but for her son, he wasn’t so sure. “Mama?” the boy said blearily as she was pulled away from him.

“It’s okay, little one, you’ll be okay.”

Everyone but the little boy in the room knew that those words were wrong.

When she died, he heard the screams of the druid camp, and he had to grab onto the edge of the balcony to steady himself. Bile rising in his throat, he stared unblinkingly down into the courtyard.

* * *

Leon’s words made it easier to deal with the guilt, to stop the burden from crushing him. He thought of them to stop him falling apart. However he thought on them so much that it became ingrained within him, and that brought consequences of his own.

He did not attack unless he was provoked, unless he had a reason to. But once he did, he had no qualms of thoughtlessly running them through, with no thought that they had been people, with friends, and families, and people that cared for them. Leon had told him he had to desensitise himself to the death, and he did.

He buried his actions under excuses. _I did what I had to do._ Using his duty as a shield. It weighed down on him, but it was the only way he was able to continue, the only way he could make himself continue. _I have to._ A running mantra when he made arrests, stood beside his father in executions, searched the town for any sign of magic. If he felt he had no choice, the guilt was easier to bear.

* * *

His eyes barely open, he stood on the field that had been a war zone. Bodies were scattered everywhere, the red of Camelot and the Blue of Mercia bleeding together. He could hear the cries of pain, the moans of the dying. He was exhausted, barely keeping himself awake. Aching all over from the constant fighting, his muscles violently protesting. His sword slipped from his hand, wedging into the ground. Covered in blood that he wasn’t sure whether it was his, or somebody else’s.

The death was terrible. He had not seen death anywhere near this scale since that first raid, and that was minimal compared to this. Despite his aches, and the more deaths, he preferred war. It was fairer. Both sides held equal chance. It wasn’t a slaughter.

* * *

“Halt, or I’ll run you through,” he ordered, sword pressed lightly against the back of the red cloaked person. “Show yourself.” Very slowly they turned, and he was faced with Morgana, with wide eyes and a terrified expression, slowly shaking her head.

“Let him go. I beg you. He’s just a child.”

He stared at her in surprise. _Morgana?_ Was his first thought, shocked that she would be the one he found here. But as she spoke he looked down at the child, her arm curled around him protectively. _He’s just a child,_ his mind echoed. Staring at the druid boy, he was shocked back to that raid. Of the small child that had stared at him before he’d gotten a crossbow bolt to the head. The screams echoed in his ears, and his legs weakened under him. It took all his effort to keep himself on his feet.

He glanced around them, and saw that they were surrounded by knights. _I’m sorry,_ he thought, looking at Morgana’s imploring face. If it had just been him he would have let them both go, pretended that he had not been there, but surrounded by his knights he had no choice. _I have to,_ if he had let them go and it got back to his father…

“Restrain them.”

He glanced briefly down at the druid boy again, before he turned, hiding the pain in his expression. He was haunted by those memories, of his inability to stop it, of the innocents that died. Here he was again, following orders, and condemning a child to death.

His father stormed at Morgana, and he stood there, head bowed listening to them rage. “I did what I thought was right.” He admired Morgana for that, he had always admired Morgana for that – and would continue for the rest of his life. Whatever the actions she took, they were always by the belief that she was in the right. He could not say the same for himself.

“He’s just a boy.” Could he do nothing again, and stand by and watch children die?

He tried to reason with his father. It was a futile attempt. Uther stuck by his beliefs.

He seemed to be the only one who didn’t, and who wasn’t sure what they were.

* * *

“I know you believe your father is wrong to execute him.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter.”

That he was certain of, and what Morgana never understood. It was not a matter of what he thought was right, and what he would do if given the choice. The king had spoken, and so Arthur followed.

“You’d let an innocent child die?” _I already have._

“It’s too late. He’s been caught. I have no choice.” _My duty comes first._

In the end he did not save the druid boy for Morgana. He saved him for his own conscience, that would never be wiped clean of the blood.

“You must come with me,” he said, holding his hand out to the boy in the cells. He knew that saving one child would not repair the damage he had made, he could never repay for what he had done. But he could not do nothing. This one life was important.

As he led the druid boy to the druids, he recognised the one standing in the forefront. He had stared at him for only a moment, before he had fled, but they both recognised the other. Arthur expected condemnation in that gaze, anger, hatred, but the prevailing emotion was relief. Relief mixed with admiration. _I do not deserve that._

“We are forever indebted to you, Arthur Pendragon, for returning the boy to us.” _No you’re not,_ he thought firmly. _He is only one child._ The wrongs he had committed would never be wiped clear, it could never be paid back, and this one child did not swing the favour in the other direction.

* * *

_Take no prisoners._

He thought about that order, as they followed the hunting dogs, looking for any sign of Morgana, or the druids.

It struck him as strange that the druids would do such a thing. He had always viewed them as relatively peaceful, what did they seek to achieve by kidnapping Morgana?

He would have claimed it a reaction to their rounding up those suspected of connections, but that had been a response to the fire in her room. Why attack Morgana?

He was determined to bring her back, whatever the cost. _I do what I have to._

This time when he gave the order to charge, he did so without the demand to leave the women and children alone. He watched and participated in the onslaught that came after, with no thought other than finding Morgana, and ensuring her safety.

* * *

Chaos erupted around Arthur, standing at the edge of the camp. The shrill screams of terror echoing in his ears. A young child turned his head to look at him, eyes blazing gold, and he woke up with a start.

Heart hammering in his chest, Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, glancing around his darkened room. There was no one there, and he knew it had just been a dream, but he could not quell the panic that twisted in his gut. Surfacing beside it was the guilt he had spent years forcing away.

He threw the covers off of himself, and got out of bed. The movement and cold floor until his feet helped to rid the panic, though it did little for his guilt.

Thinking back on that day, the feeling churned uncomfortably, and he pressed his face into his palms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

* * *

“There is no need for violence, Arthur Pendragon. The boy has done you no harm. Release him.”

Gripping onto the boy, Arthur looked up at the druid who had met him when he returned Mordred. There was no gratitude in the expression now, but a wariness, and he sensed, a disappointment.

He stared back, keeping his grip on the child. He needed the cup of life, his father had stressed how important it was that it was removed from Cenred’s kingdom. He could not risk Cenred getting his hands on such a weapon, risk his kingdom.

If threatening a child was the cost of getting the cup safely in his possession, then so be it.

As he was later forced to sneak his way into his own kingdom, desperately overrun by Cenred’s men, he wondered whether the druids had been right. Forcing them to relinquish this item of magic, had brought great devastation onto his kingdom.

* * *

Years passed, and still he never forgot that day. He led many more raids, arrested countless people, stood on the balcony beside his father and watched executions. It turned Morgana against him, and that turned him further against magic.

It must be evil to corrupt someone who had been as good hearted as Morgana had been.

There was no redemption now. No possibility of righting the wrongs that he had committed. Were they wrongs? The druids were magical beings, the actions against them were deserved…

But he wondered if it was worth it, to continue the fight at the rift it was creating. Was the loss of Morgana, the countless people murdered in revenge, the constant ache in his chest, worth it?

Were the recurring dreams of the dead littered before him, the screams in his ears, the blood on his hands, worth it?

* * *

He had not even been crowned for half the cycle of the moon before someone barged into the throne room, eyes golden and tried to kill him, flinging him backwards out of his chair to the ground.

Arthur lurched to his feet, going for his sword, but barely had time to unsheathe it before the man tripped, falling straight to the floor. The action, and the surprise on the sorcerer’s face, would almost have been comical, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

His knights reacted quickly, subduing the man, who continued to twist in their arms.

Arthur sheathed the sword, and forcing himself calm, stepped towards the sorcerer. The man’s eyes flashed momentarily golden, and it was an effort not to step back. His hand moved instinctively back to the sword at his waist before he quelled the action.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. His tone was calm, but held the undercurrent of his anger.

The man stopped his struggling and looked at Arthur dead on with a slightly unnerving stare. “I was trying to kill you,” he said, with no repentance in his voice. “What else would it have been?”

“Trying to kill the pr-king is treason,” he said. Even if he had not used magic, that confession alone was enough to warrant an execution. “Why did you do it?” He did not really have to ask, the fact that the man had magic was answer enough alone.

“If you do not follow the laws of the land, Arthur Pendragon, you cannot expect me to follow your laws.”

“My laws are the laws of the land,” he said calmly.

The man snorted, shaking his head. Arthur knew he should just have him arrested and taken to the cells, he had all the evidence that he needed to make such an arrest. But he let the man talk. “The laws of the land have not been followed since your father outlawed magic,” his face twisted with distaste. “Since he tried to banish the life source of this kingdom from it.”

“Magic has no place in Camelot.” He had heard his father say it many times. And with the ache of his father’s death still keenly present he agreed. Magic had brought nothing but harm to his kingdom, his people, himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Merlin frown.

“Magic has every place in Camelot. If you disagree, then you have no place in Camelot.”

His eyebrows pulled together, and he stared at the man who looked simply back. Arthur gave a slight shake of his head, deciding that the comment made little sense. He was the king, he had every place in Camelot. “You have been found guilty of treason,” he said, words flowing with a repetitive ease. “The consequence of which is death.”

“Ah, but if it hasn’t been treason, I would have burned all the same,” the man said. “That was decided the day was born with magic.”

“You’re punishment is for treason, nothing more, nothing less,” he said. Although he was unsure of how true that was. Even if he hadn’t been going after Arthur, the law was clear in regards to sorcery. He gave a small wave to the guards to get him taken out of the room.

* * *

“Arthur?”

He startled and glanced up at his door, where Guinevere had poked her head through. “I knocked,” she said in defence of herself.

“I mustn’t have heard it,” he said. He got up out of his chair, and she crossed the room over to him, watching him carefully.

“Are you okay? I heard there was an attack during the council meeting,” the concern was clear on her expression.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “The sorcerer didn’t hurt me.”

“I’m glad,” she said softly, reaching out to gently rub his arm.

“What if we’re wrong, Guinevere?” he asked, looking over her shoulder as he said it. Even there he could see her expression tense, eyebrows drawing together.

“What do you…?”

It took him a few moments to piece together the words that he wanted. “What if magic isn’t everything that my father said it was?” he saw her visibly relax, though her expression turned pensive. “What if not every response we – I take to them is just?”

“This man tried to kill you, Arthur.”

“I don’t mean…” he shook his head. “This man’s crime is treason. But if he had not tried to kill me, and he had just used his magic… the punishment would be the same,” he looked at her, holding his hands in front of him, as if envisioning them as a scale. “How can those two acts amount to the same thing?”

He pulled away from her, and moved to stare out the window, where the pyre was being built. “The punishment should fit the crime,” he said finally.

“You don’t think it does?”

“I’m not sure anymore that it does.”

* * *

Arthur ran his fingers over the red cloth in his hand, as Merlin spoke of Gaius’ warning of shrines, and restless spirits. The knights laughed, but he tensed as he looked around. He knew this place. It had haunted his dreams for years.

He turned to Leon, seeking solace, but saw no such recognition in the eyes of his first knight. He could not blame him, he had gone on many raids since, where the places and details blurred together in his mind.

If Merlin’s prattle on restless spirits was more than just superstition, he knew exactly what spirits they were. He could picture them clearly. Bile rose in his throat and he forced it back down.

He had to get out of here. “There’s nothing here for us. Move out,” he ordered.

His feeling of unease did not lift.

* * *

_In druid lore, only the atonement of the perpetrator can bring the spirit peace._

_But Uther’s dead. He can’t atone for what he did._

Sitting in his chair, he leaned against his folded fingers, watching Merlin moving out of the corner of his eyes. _That’s where you’re wrong, Merlin,_ he thought. Even if Uther was alive to atone for it – not that he _would_ atone for it – it was not his crime to atone for.

If what Merlin and Gaius said was true, his crime all those years ago was haunting him still. And this time it was tearing apart his kingdom from within, and not only in the literal attempts on his life. For one of his closest knights – possessed or not – to be condemned for attacking him, would create doubt in the rest.

It would also create doubt that he really was a king worth following, if someone who had been close to him turned against him. And with both Guinevere and Elyan convicted of treason… it said a lot about the decisions he had made as king.

But even ignoring every other benefit that appeasing the restless spirit would have, it would save one of his friends, and that was reason enough.

* * *

“I am truly sorry for what happened to you.”

Kneeling before Elyan – the druid spirit, he accepted his fate. If his life was the cost of Elyan’s, of freeing the druid spirit, so be it. If it was the cost to even minutely right the wrongs that he had committed years past he would do it, he deserved it, for those deaths, and all the deaths that he had brought since.

His last actions would be actions of remorse. An action of the justice that he had hoped would counterpart his reign as king.

Breathing ragged, he startled when the sword dropped to the ground. His crying softened as the druid brought him to his feet, and hugged him. He felt his tension slowly ease.

“I forgive you.”

A weight on his heart, that he had been barely aware still existed, lifted. And he made a promise to himself that he would keep his vow. That the druids would be given the respect that they deserved. He did not know if he could accept magic just yet, all the hurt that had been caused – and would continue to be caused – had hardened him against it.

But he knew he wanted a just kingdom. The druid were peaceful, and had avoided all contact with Camelot that they could. They did not deserve to be targeted the way that they had.

When he had been sworn king, he had promised to be just, and have mercy, in all the judgements that he made. He would become the king that he had promised to be.


End file.
